


The body, bearing something ordinary as light

by incognitajones



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: (mostly), F/M, Fluff, Force-Sensitive Leia Organa, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-23 15:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7468098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incognitajones/pseuds/incognitajones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leia had spent a lot of time lately fantasizing about being Vratix, in which case Han would be the one expanding to the size of a planetary ring. </p><p>Pregnant!Leia fluff (with some foreboding).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The body, bearing something ordinary as light

**Author's Note:**

> A long, long time ago, in a kinkmeme far away, someone requested [ Han/Leia fluff](http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1082.html?thread=1061178#cmt1061178).
> 
> I've chosen to ignore _Aftermath_ book-canon regarding Leia's pregnancy.

She could tell Han was trying to be stealthy as he stumbled in to their bedroom. Of course, that just ensured his smothered whisper ordering the enviro-controls to _keep the lights off, dammit_ , woke Leia in a sweaty and heart-thudding panic. Being startled awake these days was not at all enjoyable, especially when she’d barely drifted off following her last trip to the fresher.

It was patently unjust that the human male contributed 50 percent of the reproductive material but could simply walk away from the gestation process. Not that Han had—he stayed, pale and tense and jumping with nerves every time she shouted at him, even just a little—but the principle remained. Leia had spent a lot of time lately fantasizing about being Vratix, in which case Han would be the one expanding to the size of a planetary ring. Or if she were an Issori, she could have just laid some eggs and then buggered off while Han guarded them.

She pawed blindly behind her for a pillow and threw it across the room. A soft thump and an indignant yawp told her she’d made contact.

“Hey now, Your Vengefulness, that was uncalled for.” Han’s shin banged against the edge of the bed and he sat down beside her hip, his hand molding carefully to her belly. “Sorry I woke you. Everything okay?”

She heaved her bulk upright like a sarlacc emerging from its pit and leaned against his shoulder. “Just the usual. Heartburn, sore back, and bad dreams.”

His arm curled around her and she felt his lips brush the top of her head. “Plain old bad dreams, or the weird kind?” 

Han and Luke were the only living people who knew about Leia’s half-waking hallucinations, rare flashes of things that sometimes came to pass. Luke insisted on calling them Force visions, but that was pure grass-fed bantha shit.

“Pregnancy bad dreams,” Leia said shortly. “Which are weird. I had one where I gave birth to a frog.”

She didn't tell him about the recurring dream in which a gaunt, hooded thing in black killed Han and ripped her screaming son from her arms. By her standards, after all, nightmares about figures in black masks were normal. The only strange part of that one was that somehow she knew it wasn’t Vader under the mask.

Han shifted on the bed and his thumbs found the strained and aching muscles in her lower back. Leia moaned as he dug in harder. “If you start that,” she panted, “you’d better not stop any time soon.” As soon as the words left her mouth she rolled her eyes, realizing what she’d walked into.

“You’ve never had complaints about my stamina before.” 

His smirk was audible, but Leia was too tired to care about evening the score. Abandoning the effort to think of a suitable comeback, she let her head fall forward, stretching the tight cords of her neck. Han swept her braid out of the way and kneaded up her spine. Her shoulders slumped, muscles melting, and she sighed. 

Leia ached for her mother. She thought of Breha Organa often now, with a longing and sorrow sharper than she’d felt in years. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t carried Leia this way, inside her body—she was the mother Leia had loved.

And then, as always, thinking of Breha brought to mind poor, tragic Padmé Amidala, whom she and Luke had killed at birth, and Leia had to breathe in long, measured counts to stave off a panic attack.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” His voice was soft now.

Tears welled up, from exhaustion and hormones only, she swore. She would not weep for any other reason. “There’s no way to stop it now, Han. We’re having a _child_.”

“Yeah, I thought that was kinda the point of this whole process.”

“What if we’re not ready? What if we’re terrible at it? What if—?”

“What if you drive yourself crazy?” His hands swept out across her back and squeezed the points of her shoulders. “Sweetheart, between us, we’ve blown up two Death Stars, killed Jabba the Hutt, and led a rebellion that liberated half of known space, not to mention a successful smuggling career… I think we can handle one human larva.”

Leia sniffed back tears and laughed, the undignified nasal hoot that only Han and Luke could bring out. “Well, when you put it that way.”

“Frankly, your Highness, I have yet to see the situation you can't handle. Other than me, of course.” He rested his head on her shoulder, kissing the hot, damp skin of her neck.

She rolled her eyes again at the hangar-door sized opening he’d deliberately given her. “I can handle you just fine, Commander Solo. Was that supposed to be a hint?”

His lips moved up to the soft, ticklish hollow behind her ear. “Maybe.”

Leia relaxed back into Han’s arms and cupped his cheek to pull his head down where she could kiss him properly. Another flicker of fear shivered down her spine. She pushed the image of the masked abomination away firmly, determined to forget it for a little while.

After all, anyone who tried to come for Han or their child would have to go through her first.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is the first line of Aracelis Girmay’s poem [_From “The Black Maria”_](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/detail/88747).


End file.
